Today she wore a white blouse and a pair of wide navy-blue linen trousers. She had blisters where her sandals had rubbed, so she pulled out her case, unstrapped the leathers, and found a pair of espadrilles she had bought at a market during one of the stops on her first voyage to India, and hardly worn since. She grabbed her hat and her satchel, making sure she had a notebook and pencil, and left Mrs. Bishop’s guest house, though not before spending a little time with the landlady, who was at work pinning out laundry on a line across the courtyard. Mrs. Bishop informed Maisie that she would be putting clean sheets on the beds, and having a “good go” at the rooms.
As she stepped out onto the narrow street, Maisie noticed the man in the alley opposite, his face obscured by a newspaper. He wore cream trousers and black shoes—and, she suspected, no jacket, as the only other part of him visible was his arm, covered with the sleeve of a white shirt. She went on her way toward Mr. Salazar’s café on Main Street.
The main thoroughfare was already crowded with street vendors, locals walking to and from Casemates Square, and visitors hailing the distinctive horse-drawn taxicabs, with curtains at each corner. Groups of sailors meandered, looking in shop windows, some holding bags, perhaps with gifts of embroidered linen for a sweetheart, wife or mother. She wondered if business might be picking up for the housebound Babayoff sister. Tables were set up outside Mr. Salazar’s café, and he was already busy running to and fro, holding four cups of coffee—a cup and saucer in each hand and two balanced on his left arm. He did not spill a drop before setting them down in front of his customers.
“Ah, miss—lovely to see you this morning.” He waved to her and opened the door.
“I’d like to sit outside this morning, Mr. Salazar—how about over there, near the window?”
“To watch the world go by, Miss Dobbs?”
“Oh, yes. And I would like you to do something for me, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“For you, miss, anything.”
“You flatter me, Mr. Salazar. Would you mind walking across the road to Mr. Kenyon, and telling him I would like him to join me for coffee? I’d like mine very strong, with hot milk. And some of that lovely pastry—what is it called? I know you told me you make it all the time, but it’s what people eat at Christmas. Pan something or other?”
Salazar looked across the road toward Kenyon, who was looking in a shop window. He turned to Maisie. “Kenyon?”
“Yes, please, Mr. Salazar. I would like to talk to him. And some of the—what is it called?”
“Pan dulce.” He gave a short bow. “Mine is the very best.”
Maisie nodded and stepped toward a table under the awning, alongside the window, outside yet partially in shadow. She watched as Salazar crossed Main Street—it wasn’t wide—and tapped Arturo Kenyon on the shoulder. He began to speak, and Kenyon leaned forward to better hear amid the noise of passersby. The younger man looked up, then around at Maisie. She thought that if she were closer, she would have seen him redden to the roots of his hair. He followed Salazar back to the café and walked toward Maisie’s table, where he gave a short bow.
“You wish me to join you, madam?”
“Yes, please, Mr. Kenyon. And let’s not start off on the wrong foot—you know my name very well, you know where I am staying, and I daresay you know an awful lot more about me.”
Kenyon took a seat.
“I don’t know what—”
Salazar returned with two cups of coffee and two plates of the sweet bread, which he set down in front of Maisie and her guest.
“Thank you, Mr. Salazar,” said Maisie.
Kenyon nodded.
Maisie watched as Salazar walked away, then turned to Kenyon. “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Please—I have neither the time nor the energy for us to wallow in contradicting each other. Now, then, are you working for Julian Compton or Brian Huntley?”
“I don’t—”
“You do. Please do not insult me, Mr. Kenyon.”
The man sighed, pushing up his sleeves. “Huntley.”
“Good, that’s a start. Have you heard the name Compton during your communications?”
“Only as far as you’re concerned.”
Maisie nodded. “I am using my maiden name here in Gibraltar. For personal reasons, not for reasons of security, though that possibility has only just occurred to me—surprisingly.” She paused, lifting the cup and sipping the coffee. “How often do you communicate with Huntley?”
Kenyon fidgeted in his chair, leaning back and crossing his legs, leaning forward again. He took a packet of cigarettes from an inside pocket of his black waistcoat, tapped out a cigarette, and held the packet toward Maisie.
She shook her head, biting her lip.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” he asked.
“If it makes you a bit easier to talk to, go ahead.” She set down her cup and pushed back her chair a couple of inches. Reaching for the pan dulce, she pulled off a piece of the bread, which she dipped in her coffee before eating. She wiped the corners of her mouth with her fingers—there were no table napkins—then picked up the cup and took another sip.
“So—it’s Huntley. How often do you send in a report, and how do you communicate?”
Kenyon shrugged. “Every two days. I go to the garrison—I have a pass—and send my report from there.”
“I see. And you receive your orders at the same time?”
He nodded.
“But you’re also in contact with Inspector Marsh, yes?”
“How do you know all this?” Kenyon leaned forward, his voice low, though he still looked around to see if anyone had overheard.
“Calm down a bit, Mr. Kenyon. We wouldn’t want to attract attention.” Maisie sipped her coffee, again holding the cup with both hands. “It seems you know a fair bit about me—or perhaps you don’t—but I could tell you exactly when you began following me, and exactly when I first saw you with Inspector Marsh. I wonder you have time to lift a hammer and chisel, Mr. Carpenter Kenyon, given the energy you’ve dedicated to being on my tail.”
“Why did you want to talk to me?” Kenyon leaned back. He placed his cigarette on the ashtray, tore off a strip of the bread from his plate, and dipped it in his coffee before eating it. He smiled. “I’ve never done that before. It tastes good.”
Maisie looked up at other customers eating and drinking, at those who passed by. Her eyes lingered on sailors being moved on by a shore patrol.
“I want you to help me,” she said.
Kenyon laughed, shaking his head.
“I’m not making a joke, Mr. Kenyon. I want to find out who killed Sebastian Babayoff, and I’ve realized I need help. I do not know Gibraltar, and it’s hampering me. I don’t quite understand the people yet, though I’m getting by. But I don’t have time to undergo a cultural education, so I need some assistance, and I’ve decided you’re my best bet. In return, I will give you information to feed back to Mr. Huntley—who I know very well, I might add. I don’t want him—or anyone else in England, for that matter—meddling in my life.” She paused, gauging his response, alert to any movement. Then she smiled. She knew his next question, even before he opened his mouth.
“And if I agree, what will you pay me, Miss Dobbs?”
She waited a moment, sipping coffee, dipping bread, eating it and brushing her hands together to be rid of crumbs.
“What do you think is fair? You tell me.”
Salazar watched from the window as his much-respected customer and Arturo Kenyon stood up at the same time. She pulled a bank note from her wallet and left it on the table under the plate, then turned to Kenyon, and they shook hands. Kenyon glanced at his watch, and Miss Dobbs did the same. They both nodded, as if they were traders satisfied by a transaction. Kenyon stood back for her to pass him, and as they stepped out onto the street, they exchanged a few more words before she turned in one direction, and Kenyon went on his way toward Casemates Square. Salazar watched as Miss Dobbs lingered to look into a shop
window, then another, before stepping out into the street. He thought she might be checking her clothing, then realized she was looking at her own face, smiling at her reflection as if she were contemplating at a photograph, trying to identify the subject. He wondered if he had seen her smile in such a way before. There was still that sadness about her, but it was as if something had changed, something he could not put his finger on. For the moment at least, she seemed lighter.
CHAPTER FIVE
Maisie stood outside Mr. Solomon’s shop, studying the window display—tablecloths, small cocktail napkins, handkerchiefs, doilies, nightdress cases, cushion covers, all manner of embroidered and lace-edged goods, plus haberdashery supplies. There were some framed crewel-work pictures of the sea and the Rock, the natural edifice that defined the town, giving the impression of fortification even if there were none—but Maisie knew Gibraltar was arguably one of the most protected places in the Empire. She set her gaze on a set of fine white linen handkerchiefs, the lace so intricate, it might have been woven by a spider to drape across a rosebush on a spring morning. Brenda, her stepmother, would cherish these, would wrap lavender soap in each handkerchief and set them in the chest of drawers where she kept her “delicates.”
Maisie opened the door. A bell rang above her head as she crossed the threshold.
Jacob Solomon reminded her of a thinner version of Mr. Salazar. He was somewhat taller, and lacked the girth of the café owner, but each wore black trousers and a white shirt with sleeves held at bay by black garters above the elbow. Solomon was balding, and though he spent no time outside—unlike Salazar, who seemed to always be running back and forth, inside and out, the door constantly in motion as he served customers—he wore a shade to shield his eyes from the light, and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles on the end of his nose.
“May I be of service?” Solomon spoke in another dialect—a hint of North Africa, thought Maisie. He clasped his hands together, bowed his head, and came out from behind the glass-topped counter, which also displayed a number of pairs of women’s gloves.
“I should like a set of lace handkerchiefs, like those in the window.”
Solomon frowned, his deep-set dark eyes appearing to close a little. “Let us go outside—you show me,” he said.
The man followed Maisie onto the street, where she pointed to the handkerchiefs. He nodded, and they stepped back inside the store. Solomon turned to a series of wooden drawers behind the glass-topped counter and pulled out a drawer at eye height, so he had to stand on tiptoe to reach in for the handkerchiefs, a set of three tied with a narrow white ribbon.
“Will this be all?”
Maisie looked around, at linens draped across the walls and hanging just so from the ceiling. A series of mounted photographs had been exhibited on the wall closest to the counter. There were families seated, posing together: a mother with a child on her knee, or a man with his son. A woman, her skin sallow, her eyes dark and deep, seemed to stare out at Maisie from another photograph. A group of sailors had been captured for posterity, laughing as they looked toward the lens.
“Do you have a studio here?” She turned to the shopkeeper, smiling. “Sorry—it’s Mr. Solomon, isn’t it?” She gave him no time to reply, but looked back at the portraits. “These are very good—you seem to capture more than just the physical features of the subjects, Mr. Solomon.”
“They’re not mine, madam. They are the work of a photographer who no longer works here. I allowed him to set up a small studio in my stockroom. It was to his advantage and to mine—a little rent, and of course, more sales. Mainly people have a photograph to remember a special day, and then they buy something as a gift.” He looked at Maisie. “But I am afraid he works here no longer, though I am hoping another photographer will take his place.” His glance moved to the images on the wall. “It would be hard to get someone as good as Mr. Babayoff. Customers said you could almost see the sitter’s thoughts in his photographs.”
Maisie’s eyes turned once again to Sebastian Babayoff’s work, lingering on the eyes of a mother holding her child. She looked away, pressing her lips together.
“Indeed, you’re quite right, Mr. Solomon. May I ask—do you have more examples of his work? I am interested in photography. I had a camera but gave it away—I always ended up frustrated that I couldn’t quite capture what I was aiming for. Instead of a couple of friends on horseback, I would cut off their heads! Or when I tried to photograph my father with his dog, I managed to get the dog and not my father. I just don’t know how people do this.” She held out her hand toward the photographs, aware that she was chattering to distract herself from the image of the child in her mother’s arms.
Solomon nodded. “Just one moment.” He walked to the door, turned the sign to inform customers that the store was now closed, and returned to the counter. “If you would like to come with me, Miss Dobbs?”
Maisie smiled. It came as no surprise to her that Solomon knew her name, though she would bide her time with the shopkeeper.
Solomon pulled a chain with a set of keys from his trouser pocket and opened a door set between the rows of drawers behind the counter. Maisie expected the door to lead to another room, but instead it opened onto a small courtyard, a door on each of its four sides apparently leading to a series of dwellings. Turning immediately to their right, Solomon led Maisie up a stone stairway to a room above the shop. Piles of boxes appeared to have been pushed against the perimeter of the room to clear a space in the middle. On one side two chairs were positioned before a wooden frame covered with a heavy dark velvet cloth, with a potted plant to either side—rather grand and mature shrubs. Maisie looked around the room. Behind the screen a chaise longue was barely visible under a pile of linens and embroidered cushions.
She stepped toward the plants, reaching out to touch the leaves. “Oh, my—they aren’t real.”
Solomon smiled, shaking his head. “The stems are made of wire and silk or satin ribbon, as are the leaves. They look real enough in the photographs, though. Sebastian had a way with light.”
“I can see that. Did he leave any more examples of his work here?”
“Only more portraits to be collected by customers—you may see them if you wish. Most have gone now—only a few remain to be claimed, and those are mainly of army and navy men. They could have left the garrison, though—sometimes they are filled with drink when they see the photographer is here, so they forget. It’s a shame, because they pay after the sitting.”
Maisie nodded, turning to Solomon. “So you know my name.”
“I do, yes. You have visited Miriam Babayoff. You discovered Sebastian.” He rubbed his chin. “I would imagine that most people would try to forget such a discovery, but I have the impression you’re not that sort of person.”
“If Miss Babayoff has spoken of our meeting, then she would have told you about the job I used to do. I had a business conducting private investigations—that’s the best way to describe it—until several years ago, when I left England. Let’s say it is ingrained in me to ask questions.”
Solomon rubbed his chin again. “Be careful, Miss Dobbs. Questions can get you into trouble—especially here, and especially now.”
“Who do I have to fear, Mr. Solomon?”
The man walked to the door, opened it, looked down into the stairwell, and closed the door again. He stepped toward the window, moving a box out of his path, and then lifted two brown paper-wrapped packages atop a crate. He shook his head as he reached for a blind and covered the window, then turned on a dim light.
“It’s a wonder the whole lot hasn’t gone up in smoke before now. Whenever I come up here, I swear I will sort out every box, parcel, and wrapping.” He held his hand toward one of the chairs. Only after Maisie was seated did he take the other, rubbing his chin, as seemed to be his habit.
“The truth is, Miss Dobbs, I cannot be more—” He drummed his fingers on his forehead, as if to wake up his words. “What can I say? I cannot be more—yes, specific.
But know this—Sebastian would put his nose in a wasp’s nest if he thought he could photograph the queen. He was always after something more. He wasn’t happy with just a mother’s face and the child’s face—he tried to photograph love itself. He would not be content with a photograph of the fisherman with his catch—he wanted to find the pain of toil in the image.” Solomon wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His words had not come with ease, and the effort of communicating was evident in the furrow of his brow.
Maisie nodded. “Had he been in some sort of trouble?”
Solomon shrugged. “A curious man with a camera in his hand—what do you think? I cannot tell you who and why, but I do know that since he first picked up a camera, that boy was everywhere, shooting this or that. First on glass, then in rolls. He would starve to keep a camera running.”
“I see.” She paused. “Can you tell me about his politics, Mr. Solomon?”
“His politics? I don’t know that he had any. He only cared about whatever he was pointing his camera toward.” He rubbed his chin again and then removed the shade above his eyes, pressing his fingers back and forth along the indentation it had made in his forehead. The lines between his eyebrows appeared even deeper. “Why do you ask about his politics?”
Maisie sighed; fatigue was claiming her. The dark window blind and locked door conspired to accentuate the musty smell of packed linens, rendering the air stagnant and oppressive. She was at once aware of the dust on boxes, of cobwebs across the dark wooden ceiling and along the soft leaves of satin at her side. She wondered, then, how she might look if Sebastian Babayoff were training his lens on her face at that moment. Mirroring Solomon, she rubbed her hand across her forehead, feeling not only her thirst but something of the lassitude emanating from the man beside her.
“I spoke to a young woman yesterday, the niece of the fisherman, Carlos Grillo. Apparently Mr. Babayoff would go out to sea with Mr. Grillo, who had been a friend of his father.” She rubbed her head again. The atmosphere in the room was bearing down as if a boulder were being rolled across her chest. “She also said that the photographer was a Communist.”